


Hostage

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Humor, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 02:36:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/793078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blair encounters Simon and learns a few lessons from Jim.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hostage

## Hostage

Jack Reuben Darcy

Disclaimer: Actually, I'm beginning to think they own _me_... 

Notes: This is a sequal to 'Now I Know' and 'Wanderlust' and the third part of the "One Moment" series. Once again, thank you to Rie for the laughs and the beta (and lots of other stuff). 

Part three of the One Moment Series 

Summary: Blair encounters Simon and learns a few lessons from Jim. 

* * *

"Sandburg? I need to talk to you." 

As I squeeze past a clutch of people gathered around the bar door, Simon's voice growls beneath the overtones of merry conversation, laughter and tinny juke-box music, reaching me inexorably despite the distance. This isn't one of my favourite places - but the guys from the station just love it here. It's one of those cop joints, where everybody knows who they are and treats them just like normal people. 

Yeah, just like they are. Hey, people in Cascade know how to pretend, don't they? 

But it's not my kind of place. I know that's sacrilege - and I don't dare say it out loud when I'm with the guys, but there's too much pseudo-aged wood and deliberately yellowed paint.. Too many fake antique mirrors, tables with colonial style chairs and painted plastic ashtrays. Hell, they've even got a spittoon at the end of the bar, as though anybody around here would know what it was for. 

And of course, it's smoky. There's an air-conditioner going but all it's doing is circulating the smoke from one set of lungs to another. Global sharing on an intimate scale. The closer you are to the duct, the more smoke you're likely to breathe in. Personally, I don't know how Jim puts up with it. I don't know how I do. 

But you have to make these sacrifices, eh? Have to put yourself out there, be prepared to go wherever you need to go to be a part of these bonding rituals. It took me a long time to become accepted by these people - and for all that I run the closed-society scenario whenever I need a smoke-screen for my real diss topic, the truth is, this really _is_ a very closed society that doesn't normally embrace anyone without a badge - regardless of how good/clever/brave/decorated they may be. However, I'm still here. I still get invited. They still buy me drinks and don't expect me to put up for a round more than once a month. 

Nah, these guys are anything but normal. 

"Sandburg?" 

Simon's standing in a corner, as far from the bar as possible. He's easy to see because he's so tall, but he's waving at me anyway like he hopes I'll rescue him from the Friday night crush or something. 

Me. Yeah, right. 

Jim is right behind me. I can feel his presence, the warmth coming from his body even though it's so cold outside. I find I can almost sense him now the way he senses me. Okay, it's not the same, but it's similar. I think. Not that I have his tactical weapons, mind, but I'm not without my resources - one of which seems to be an uncanny ability to know when he's near and when he isn't. 

Besides, his hand is pressed against the small of my back - something of a dead giveaway as to his position. With the number of people in here, he could almost lean down and kiss me and nobody would notice. It's almost worth suggesting it, just to see what would happen. 

But no, we're still too new, Jim and me. We're going out after this. Out for a picnic supper by the beach. It's four weeks today since we got together. Four weeks and we're still in love - so that just proves miracles still happen. 

Simon's waving again and Jim leans down, hearing me chuckle. 

"You paying him to do that?" 

"It's nice to feel wanted," I say clearly. I know he's got his hearing dialled down. Hell, I wish I could dial mine down too - but my genes are apparently normal so I just have to suffer the ringing ears. 

"Yeah, it is." 

He's done it again. Dropped the timbre of his voice to a level where it reaches inside me, grabs me and makes me see all over again just what I am to him. And I don't even think he knows he's doing it. I once called him on it - but he honestly had no idea that a mere whisper had the power to melt all my innards. 

Meet Blair Sandburg - personal advertisement for jello. 

I glance up at him, he's looking at me, all innocence, like he really doesn't understand what I see in him. I mean, he's this tall guy, all muscles and soft-centre, loyalty that would put the marines to shame and a sense of humour more arid than the Gobi - and he wonders why I love him. 

"Half an hour, Jim. No more. Okay?" I let a little of my own husky tones out in those words, just to test the trusted waters. 

His grin flashes daylight into the dusky bar. "That long?" 

"Anything less and the guys will start talking." 

"Then half an hour it is. You better go talk to Simon before he pulls a muscle trying to get your attention. I think Brown owes me a beer." His hand does a brief, gentle caress of my ass before it vanishes and I know he's squeezed his way in the opposite direction, leaving me to face Simon alone. 

There are some days when there are distinct advantages to being small \- but this isn't one of them. I elbow, push, shove and elbow again my way though the press of people, running 'excuse-me's' together to the point of satire. The noise is worse at this end of the room and really, I'd rather be getting a beer first. 

No. Perhaps not. I have plans for later and I don't want to be distracted. 

"Jesus, Sandburg, I thought you two were going to be here an hour ago." 

Simon's version of a personalised greeting within the boundaries of a social environment. There are moments when the concept of a closed society seems almost an understatement. Then again, Simon, Jim and I are a closed society of our own. Three people who share the same secret - so I guess I shouldn't be too harsh on the man. He does his best and he knows how good a cop Jim is with being a sentinel and everything. It's not Simon's fault he'll never get close enough to really understand how and why it works. 

Hey, I only just began to understand it myself - and I was in there, on the ground floor. 

Come to think of it, I was actually on the _ground_. 

"We had to make a few more calls and then Jim got that fax he was waiting for," I begin, wondering if that's why he was waving at me with such determination. 

But Simon is shaking his head, frowning, pursing his lips together - all of which is his usual language for warning me that he's about to say something I should pay close attention to. 

Good thing I'm an anthropologist, eh? The study of human behaviour within a cultural and societal structure is rudimentary in dealing with a man of Simon's complexities. 

I straighten up, turn the most attentive look I can on him - and wait. "Sandburg," Simon begins, drawing me closer until I'm standing by the wall, shoulder pressed up against the drinks shelf which is just the right height for Simon to rest his elbow on. 

"That's the name, man," I offer encouragingly. Half an hour - and then I'm outta here, so be quick. I've got things to do. Someone to be with. Things to do to him er, I mean _with_ him. 

"I need to talk to you." 

"Go ahead." What was this? A conspiracy for Jim's birthday party or something? I mean, that's what Simon makes it look like - even though Jim's birthday is still two months away. I know - I have something special planned for it, myself. Something that won't require the entire gang from Major Crimes. Something that will require no more than a naked Jim, a naked me, a piece of blue ribbon, a birthday cake with lots of cream and  

But Simon is here now, shooting stray glances across the room, and I just know he's keeping track of where my other half is. Silly really \- he should just ask me. I could tell within four feet exactly where Jim was. "Simon?" 

"Sorry." He turns back to me now, giving me his undivided attention. He shifts a little, picks up his glass, takes a sip of what I'm sure is whisky then puts his glass back down. The jukebox picks up a Santana song and I smile, knowing Jim probably chose it. "Listen, I just wanted to know how Jim's doing." 

I can't help it. My eyebrows rise without warning and no effort on my part can stop them. "That's all? Well, Jim's fine, man. You can see that for yourself." 

"No," Simon drops his voice until I can barely hear him over the noise. "I mean, how's he going with the, you know, senses stuff. Is everything working okay?" 

So now we're being specific - and I still don't know what the man is on about. I shrug, "Sure. Everything's about normal." 

Simon twists his mouth, like he has to literally chew on the words first, before they're allowed out without a chaperone. "So he's not having any day-to-day problems?" 

"No. Not that I know of." 

"Would you know? If he was having any? Does he always tell you?" 

"No. Not always. At least, not directly - but I always find out eventually. But really, Simon, there's nothing to worry about. He's doing better than ever before now. I really think he's got a handle on it." 

"That's great, great." Simon says this like it's anything but - then promptly refuses to continue by distracting himself with another mouthful of his drink. This time he drains the glass, as though for courage. He puts it down on the shelf, keeps his gaze on it and says, "What do you think would happen if I pulled your ride-along status?" 

Fine hairs I never knew I had rise along the back of my neck and despite the heavy heat in the bar, a brief, violent shiver runs from my head to my toes. I don't want to sound pathetic, but I can't quite control my voice when I reply, "Did I do something wrong, Simon? I mean, if I did, I'm sorry and you know, I'll try not to do it again. I know I'm not a cop but I have learned a lot of stuff and hey, you said I do help, didn't you? With the cases and stuff" 

He's been holding up his hand for more than a few seconds, but panic has a way of making me blind to things like that initially. So now I see it and now I put an end to the rambling words that tumbled from me, like some kind of rope thrown out to a Titanic lifeboat. And that ship sank too, as I recall. 

"Sandburg, you haven't done anything wrong. I promise you, you haven't broken any rules lately that we haven't already talked about." 

"So why are you pulling my ticket?" 

"I didn't say I was going to - just that well, I'm thinking about it." 

"Why?" 

He glances at me a moment, having to dip his head quite a bit to look at me over his glasses, like I've grown a third ear or something in the last three minutes. "For your own  protection." 

"Shit, Simon," I pounce - and boy, can I pounce when I want to. "We've been over this a hundred times already. I've got all the insurance, I've been doing this a couple of years now and I've learned the ropes and hell, Simon, you can't just arbitrarily decide that it's suddenly too dangerous for me to be out on the streets with Jim. Besides, he's the best protection I could possibly have. And what about my dissertation? If I don't ride along with Jim, I don't gather data and without that  and above all, what happens if he _does_ have trouble with his senses and I'm not there?" 

"You just said he's got the hang of it." 

"That doesn't mean it will stay like that." 

"So, you're going to stick with him forever?" 

Forever? Damned straight I will! 

But I know that's not the question Simon is asking me. Nor, in reality, is my safety or otherwise the real issue here. I know; I can see it in Simon's eyes. He's not being totally honest with me. "What's this really about, Simon? You know as well as I do that it's safer for me now than it was in the beginning. Where's the danger?" 

He finally meets my gaze, openly, with just a hint of resignation. "Jim." 

I could sputter and cough and demand to know what he means - but there is such an air of wary protectiveness to the big man, I simply stand there and wait, offering a single question. "Why is Jim a danger to me?" 

"Oh, I don't think he'd hurt you or anything, don't get me wrong. And you know I think he's one damned fine cop - the best I've got. Maybe even the best I've seen. But I've seen the way he  relies on you and " 

"Relies on me?" 

"Yeah. Sure, he functions perfectly when you're not around - but he functions even better when you _are_ around - and that bothers me." 

For some odd reason, those fine hairs on the back of my neck do a little dance again. I wonder if there's a draft in this room. 

I take a step closer to Simon, keeping my voice steady and even, not allowing even a hint of the sudden anger that fills my gut to come out in tone or look. "Why does it bother you?" 

He's silent for a good ten seconds. Then he flinches, glances down at his feet and shakes his head. "I'm sorry, kid, but I think he's become too attached to you." 

"Too attached?" What can I do but ask? I mean, ask - how attached is too attached? Was there a definable line? Did we not see it when we stepped over it? Were there protocols, rules and regulations nobody warned me about? 

He's talking about a sentinel and guide here, and he damned well knows it! How can Jim possibly be _too_ attached to me? God, for so long there, I worried that he wasn't attached enough! 

But the big man doesn't go on - so I have to push him. I'm good at that, too. Even better than I am at pouncing. After all, I've had years of practice pushing one Jim Ellison around - Simon is really a piece of cake compared to that. "Damn it, Simon, what the hell are you talking about? You know the real score, here. You know I don't only help Jim when his sense go haywire - I help him use them on a day-to-day basis. If he's _not_ attached to me, I'm no use at all - and neither is he." 

"I'm not talking about the sentinel thing." His voice is so low I almost don't hear this. Then he adds, "I mean it  well, in another way entirely." 

Oh, no. 

"Um Simon," I begin with great care, treading so softly, eggshells wouldn't even shiver under my feet. "What way are you talking about?" 

"I think he's well, shit, Blair, I think he's  I don't think his intentions are entirely honourable." 

I almost laugh. 

I mean, it's there, bubbling inside me to just let it go - but I resist. Sure, it's tough, but I can do it. I'm sure I can. 

Honourable? 

Did we skip back a century when I wasn't looking? 

"I'm sorry, Simon." No, it seems I skipped back about ten years, right back into adolescence. "What does that mean, exactly?" 

"I mean," Simon hisses between clenched teeth, "that I think he's interested in you _romantically_! Is that clear enough for you?" 

I never actually said anything to Jim the first time I noticed the colour coded containers in the fridge. I did have a good laugh at them, though - and that was my privilege, my right, as the target of such a strict food code. And then, right before we went off on that case on the rig, I finally pounced, listing them along with a dozen other things as perfect examples of how Jim is such a control freak. He instantly countered with how disorganized I was, how haphazard my life is and how, in his opinion, I have absolutely no discipline whatsoever. The moment I tried citing my study habits, he instantly formed a rebuttal filled with anecdotes of how I have to rush to meet my teaching commitments and I'm always grading papers etc at the last minute. No discipline, see? 

But I'm standing here, looking Simon in the eyes, hearing him tell me he wants to split Jim and me up because he's worried for my virtue - and I'm totally capable of not completely dissolving into laughter. Me and discipline are soulmates. 

Besides, this is an anniversary and a little celebratory teasing would be such a good way to start the night off. So I take a deep breath. I hitch my jaw a little and do a perfect impression of a man who is deliberately trying to avoid glancing nervously over his shoulder to where his partner is standing. Then, as icing on the cake, I swallow loudly. 

"Romantically?" Repetitions always work with Simon. He has this compulsion to keep elaborating until he's running around in this nice little decorative circle. I had a dog once who chased his own tale in a similar manner. "You think Jim  that Jim wants to " 

I let my voice trail off in a gesture of paled confusion, as though the idea has never occurred to me until now - a blatant and bare-faced lie. It occurs to me on a daily basis, and has done for not only the last month - but the months before I said a word to Jim about it. And that's not even counting the _number_ of times a day it singed through my brain. That's in a separate class all it's own. 

Simon, suddenly uncomfortable, grabs my arm, pulls me a little closer so he can keep his volume to a minimum, "You're not going to say anything to him about this are you?" 

"About what? Simon, I just don't see it. Why do you think he thinks that way about me?" 

Okay, discipline _and the devil_ are my soulmates. 

Yeah, and Jim Ellison, of course. 

Simon is almost on the edge now, frantic, desperate and obviously concerned that at any second, Jim might just dial his hearing up and listen in on our conversation. "Are you telling me you've never noticed the way he touches you, looks at you? The way he smiles when you walk into the station? God, the man said you could stay at his place for a week - and you're still living there, more a part of the furniture than his stereo. You crook your little finger and he's there, like a tamed dog - " 

I can feel those hackles rising again. 

"- and he lets you get away with shit he'd kill other people for. And that doesn't even take into consideration how he behaves if he thinks you're in danger." 

"I still don't understand," I do - but he's going to pay for that dog comment, "Jim and I have always been like that." 

"Except that it's worse now. Much worse. The last few weeks he's been like an open book. I'm constantly surprised that nobody's said anything to me about it. Are you honestly telling me you know nothing about this?" 

Mmmn, what to do. Outright lie? Gentle obfuscation? General meandering - or the flat truth? 

Decisions, decisions. 

"So, you want to split up a perfectly good working team," - okay, so none of the above - "because you can't trust Jim to keep his hands off me?" 

Oh, beautiful. The sly, left-hand offensive jab. Works every time. 

"Of course not!" 

Including this one. 

"And even if you do - what's to stop him from trying something at home? I can't afford to move out, Simon. I really don't know what you think I should do." And just to make it an elegant offensive, add a touch of worry, a suggestion that I'm taking this seriously and could possibly find myself in a difficult position. 

And I do. Often. Sometimes the positions are quite difficult indeed. 

I am sooo close to losing it. So far out on that discipline limb, the whole tree is shaking in trepidation of the very real possibility that I might actually die laughing. 

But then, I feel it. My salvation. Opening up my guide senses in a way I can never really explain to the man I love. But I know he's moving across the room towards me, slipping that delicious body between others to gain my side. I have no need to look at him, don't even need to hear his voice. I know he's there. I just do - and he just is. The way of the world. Our world. Our own closed society. 

"Hey, Simon." 

And in those two, simple words, I read a whole essay in self-discipline, reaching far and beyond anything I was congratulating myself on before. 

Jim, mighty Sentinel and my personal Blessed Protector, heard every single word. 

And he wonders why I love him so much. 

"Hi, Jim." Simon's a little shaken, not knowing, as I do, whether Jim heard or not - but also not willing to take a chance. 

But Jim's older than me and he's probably a lot more mature - because he doesn't tease his friend at all. He just looks at me, eyebrows raised only a little, implacable facade giving nothing away that anybody but me could read and says, "You wanted me to remind you you have a hot date tonight, Chief. Remember?" 

Half my face smiles at him. The other half remains in careful neutrality - I'm still in too much danger of giving the game away and with the master standing there, in perfect innocence beside me, I have no desire to repeat lessons later. 

"Yeah, thanks, Jim. Can you give me a lift home?" 

"Sure. Ready to go now?" 

I manage a nod - but of course, I have to turn back to Simon. "Listen, I'll uh  think about it, okay? See what I can come up with. Just don't you know worry about it - or do anything rash. Right?" 

Simon has the grace to glance with a touch of guilt at Jim before nodding at me. "Okay, okay. Just be  careful, Sandburg." 

Jim lets out the most perfect chuckle I have ever heard. "Careful? Sandburg? Yeah, good call, there, Simon. Come on, Chief, or you'll be late for your date." 

I wave goodbye to Simon, leaving him grim-looking, alone in his corner and follow Jim as he makes a path towards the door. It creaks and groans as he pushes it open, an old fashioned bell tinkling to herald our departure - and then abruptly, we're out in the street, in sudden silence, in sudden cold, walking towards the truck. 

I pull my coat around me, shove my hands into my pockets, turn the corner following the windbreak in Jim-clothing. I have my head down so I don't see it when he comes to a halt. Don't see it so I can't stop bumping into him. That's when he turns. 

The rest of his movements are too quick for me to list. All I know is, one minute I'm standing there beside the truck, worrying if this alley is too dark to be safe - the next, I know it isn't because this big man has me pushed up against the door, his hands running down my arms, his face close, his breath warming my cheek. 

"Happy Anniversary, Chief," he whispers, melting me inside like I'm a snowflake and he's my blowtorch. Only, those are just words - and what really melts me is when he kisses me, right here, out in the open - okay, in the dark - but it's still in a city street. 

He kisses me - and I kiss him and it's like the very first time he kissed me, like I've never tasted beer on him before, never felt the warmth, the moist haven of his mouth, never noticed how erotic just one of his kisses can be. But I guess it's an anniversary kiss and it _should_ remind me of that first time. 

It's a long kiss. Deep. Playful and serious, both at the same time. He's telling me things, here. Important things he'll never repeat with the clumsiness of words. 

And I'm listening. Boy, am I listening. I live to hear this stuff. From him. As often as possible. I'm a veritable sponge for these drops of wisdom, soaking up each for the desperate jewels they are. 

And even if Simon can't see it in me as well. Even if Jim doesn't understand why - I still love him so much it no longer scares me. 

So the kiss ends and we're breathing again. Breathing the same air, sharing it, sharing the moment. He touches my face, like he's just discovered it and my insides twist, flashing excitement and anticipation through every cell in my body simultaneously. Now, I happen to know _this_ is deliberate. 

He's laughing. Softly, letting me feel it as much as hear it. He's including me in it and I just know he's thinking about Simon. I tilt my head back until I can look into his eyes, putting all the innocence I can into that first look - putting all my money onto the one horse. 

"What?" I ask. 

"Sandburg?" He replies. "I need to talk to you." 

* * *

End Hostage.


End file.
